In the Midst of the Battle
by tectrices
Summary: [Royai] With nothing left to live for, and nothing more than the resounding sound of gunshots in his head, Roy is ready to forget. Scared of death, he finds the next best thing: love, and the warmth of a woman's body. Smangst. Oneshot in two movements.
1. movement: the first

**_In the Midst of the Battle_**

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**Disclaimer:** _FMA-- fun to play with, not to eat.  
_**Pairing:** Mustang and Hawkeye  
**Rating: **'T', mainly for part two-- this part has reference to attempted suicide, and very light coarse language  
**Setting/Premise/Etc.: **in the madness of the war, two lonely souls fight a battle of their own (pre-series)  
**A/N:** Enjoy!

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Every morning, Roy awoke to a symphony. The loud, syncopated roar of gunfire assaulted his ears, dulling his senses and slowly wearing away what was left of his mind. The brassy mechanic noises overwhelmed the shrill sounds of men screaming, while the harsh, almost rhythmic beat of gunshots had a heavy power that shadowed all else. He heard it; he was breathing in time, thinking in time, lost and hypnotized by the steady sounds of death. 

He wondered, while there was a rest, when it would be his turn to play.

He had never cared about guns; with alchemy, he had never needed them, and so he had never bothered to learn much about them. The only time he had seriously considered using a gun had been after he had carried out the orders to dispose of those doctors– the Rockbells. He had taken the military issue gun, the same type they had all been given, and retired to his tent. For the first time in his life, his finger itched to pull the trigger.

Afterwards, he hated himself for that night. He loathed himself for being so cowardly. Yes, in retrospect he was glad he had survived, was glad he had the chance to keep living. But he hated himself for being so weak. He had stood there for what felt like hours, the barrel of the gun pointed at his head. He kept telling himself to do it: to pull the trigger, pull the trigger...

Hughes found him, of course, stuck in that cycle of waiting and indecisive depression: should he, would he, could he? Just when Roy was steeling himself again, convinced that finally he could– and would– end his life for good (and for the better), Maes had burst in and found him. If he had been shocked, he hadn't shown it. He had been supportive, and incredibly harsh at the same time, being all in that one moment what Roy needed: trying– desperately, subtly– to convince his friend to live.

But Roy never really liked to remember that evening.

In fact, for days afterward he remembered nothing at all. He was a drone, a lifeless soldier, a man with nothing more than orders to follow. He didn't think– living only because he had not yet died. It was not until nearly a week after his brush with self-destruction that he woke up.

He was sitting alone again, in the dark, the sounds of fighting beginning to fade. A sudden rustling pulled him out of his insubstantial reverie. He looked up quickly, surprised. It was Riza Hawkeye, one of the other soldiers stationed there with him.

She flashed an apologetic half-smile quickly before speaking. "Hughes... asked me to come check on you. He would have come himself, but..." She looked down uncomfortably. "Are you... are you alright?"

He smiled sardonically. "Of course, Hawkeye; don't I look alright?"

She tried to return his smile, but failed most miserably. "You look like you're miserable. You look like half a man. You look like you'd take anything over this war, this place– this moment."

He snorted derisively. "Hughes tell you that, too?"

She sighed. "Is it wrong that I'm worried too, Roy?"

"Hawkeye, I'm really not in the mood now. We can continue this discussion later."

"With all due respect sir, I think you need it now."

She came over and stiffly sat down beside him on the low cot. He ignored her, his head down and his forearms resting on his knees. Riza risked a glance at him. He didn't look good.

Hesitantly, she tried again. "Mustang– I can tell something is _not right_. You may think you're fine, but..." She frowned. "No! I know you know that something's wrong. This war hurts all of us, but..." She looked at him earnestly with liquid eyes. When she finally found the will to continue, her voice was nothing more than a whisper. "Somehow it seems that it's hurting you most of all."

"Don't be foolish. You're imagining things."

"I... know about the doctors." She saw him wince involuntarily. "It wasn't a secret, of course, it was your order, and... Well, none of us can really blame you, so..." She folded her hands in her lap and looked down. "I know that you're going to be torturing yourself about it, and maybe I just wanted to remind you that you _are_ worth something– whether you believe it or not."

Roy ran a hand through his dark, messy hair. He released a ragged sigh, and sat up slowly and stiffly. He met Riza's eye– with a gaze of anguish and pain so insurmountable she felt as though she were being swallowed whole. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He sighed again. Then, plunging desperately into a confession he said, "Hughes was worried... because..." He sat up straighter and cleared his throat. "Because he caught me with a gun to my head."

"_What_?" she breathed, shocked to the core.

"You don't have to worry," he said bitterly. "I couldn't have done it, even if Maes hadn't interfered. I couldn't end my own life; I was too afraid. I was too scared of... of death; I just... couldn't." He put his face in his hands. "I knew, even as I stared down the barrel of that damned gun, that I wouldn't be able to do it. I'm... such a... such a–"

Riza placed a small hand on his back in a gesture of comfort. "You might be a desperate man," she said, "but that doesn't make you a coward. Everyone's afraid of death– at least a little."

"I shouldn't be afraid," he said, his voice muffled. "I shouldn't be afraid!"

Riza shut her eyes and took a deep breath. "Sometimes you–"

He shot up. "Don't you understand, Hawkeye?" he asked desperately. "I've lost everything! I don't even feel like a man anymore; I feel like a worthless, mindless machine. I can only obey orders– nothing else, nothing else." His voice heaved with some raw emotion, and Riza could tell he was trying his damnedest not to begin to cry. "Nothing else..."

Weighing her consequences quickly, her mind racing and her heart aching more with every beat, she came to a desperate decision. She turned subtly face the man she had only truly known for about a year, the man who constantly vexed and intrigued her, the man she admired and secretly pitied. Riza sighed, and tried to smile. "Roy," she said softly– so softly, so kindly, so warmly– "Look at me."

His head turned, his face red, his eyes tired.

With a sigh that seemed more like a surrender, she put his arm around her. She kissed his forehead and said, "If it means anything at all... I think you're worth more than that."

Her eyes closed as she leant her own forehead against his. She missed the flame that leapt into his eyes.

"I suppose I'll go," she began, "but if you need anythi–"

He never let her finish. In one second, she was in his arms.

He kissed her like he was dying, like there was nothing left but the two of them– when he pulled away, she realized she never wanted to see that defeated look on his face again. She swore, in that moment, that she would be there to protect him from more pain. So she kissed him again.

A second later, she was trying as hard not to cry as he was.

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_to be continued_

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End A/N: I hope everyone liked this! I LOVED writing it! (sighs happily) As soon as I get the second part beta-ed, it will be posted. (Special thanks to my beta-- Hero Girl of Brien) Please review if you have any comments, criticisms, etc! I do love responses...


	2. movement: the second

**_In the Midst of the Battle_**

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_Disclaimer: I do not own FMA._  
**Story Note:** The line that's centered and in italics is being spoken by both characters.  
**A/N: **Here's part two! Sorry it took a while, but I'm pretty sure it'll be worth it. Well... it's a lot better than it was, regardless of it's good or not. I had to up the rating, but only because there was a little bit more bad language.I wanted to be safe, too, and this is really more, erm, pg-16 than anything.There is, of course, a bit of implied intimacy, but nothing explicit, and nothing that would make it hard to read. I'm a little, eh... nervous, I suppose, so it would mean a lot to me if you'd at least give this a chance! Ifeel I have to add, for whatever reason, that this might never have been written if I hadn't been reading Hemingway for school today-- he positively inspired me, and, coincidentally enough,my teacher actually used to phrase "in the midst of the battle" (or very nearly that) to describe a soldier's need for, erm...a life-affirming experience. Yes... With all that out of the way, though, I hope you enjoy!

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"I deserve to die," he whispered, his voice strained. "I deserve to rot in the deepest pits of hell." 

She kissed the lids of his eyes; she held onto him tighter. He didn't even notice. "Why do you think that?"

"It's true," he murmured defeatedly, "That's why; it's true, it's true, it's true. I don't deserve to live. It hurts..." His body shook, wracked with suppressed sobs. "Damn it... It hurts!" He laid his head on her shoulder so she couldn't see him cry. But she felt the thin wetness of his tears on her skin, and even if she couldn't see– she knew.

"Do you think that you're worthless?"

He nodded. "I'm the worst fuckin' human being on this whole pathetic planet."

"That let me show you–" she lifted his head and put his hand on her heart. "–What it feels like to be worth more than anything else in the world."

He saw her face coming closer to his, but he didn't register what was happening until he felt her lips on his. He nearly reeled back, shocked at the implication of her actions.

"Don't be afraid," she said against his mouth. "I'm here... I'm with you. Now... Forever."

"Why would you want to protect me?" he murmured pathetically. "You don't even know me."

"I don't need to." And that, it seemed, was all there was to it.

Riza was warm. Roy couldn't help but notice that she was emitting heat like a furnace. It was _beautiful_. She shivered, and he pulled her closer. Their bodies were pressed together tight– like they were two puzzle pieces finally connected. He wondered, if only briefly, why– when they were sane– they had never pursued each other before. He was still mad, of course; his body still burned with a white-hot hatred: the only time in his miserable existence he could ever remember feeling such a true sense of self-loathing. He was still desperate, still crazy with pain.

He kissed her that much more fiercely, if only to forget.

_If only to forget._

Riza couldn't think. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't, couldn't, couldn't. Roy was her only universe. She was drowning inside him, drowning; she was burning, aching, falling. And he was right there to catch her and throw her down again. He was as strong as steel then, holding her and touching her and trying to erase his sins in the smooth line of her body. What a wonderfully painful way to live...

"Why are we doing this?" Roy asked suddenly. "What are we doing? Is this--" he gently ran the back of his hand down her cheek "--going to help anything? Going to do anything other than satiate my deplorable appetite? I'm a dead man Riza-- would you still make love to a corpse?"

She didn't give an answer in words. Instead, she pulled away from him slowly and stood up. Her eyes were full of promise and warm regard as her clothes fell off her body like drops of acrid water, wetting the dry, desert ground with an ironically lifeless rain. She kissed him again, his hands finding her skin with new purpose. He let her strip him of his uniform, her steady hands– trained from so many merciless shots fired– never once hesitating. His hand found hers and he pulled her gently to the ground.

He could hear a different symphony then, one of bells and soft, lilting melodies, and great brassy crescendoes, and then louder, Louder, LOUDER until all the band was holding high and strong in a fermata at the peaking moment of the piece, and then it would fade softly with horn harmonies, and the tinkling of the upper woodwinds ending on a soft, shaking breath.

The song ended, though, and he was pulled back into his "here" and "now". Riza sat there, waiting for him to do something– _anything_– to show that he knew, and he desired, and something still could affect him no matter how numb he had become. Her body trembled, and she swallowed in nervous anticipation.

When Roy spoke, his voice was hoarse– tired. "This... Riza, I'm sorry. We shouldn't be in this position– not now, not ever so long as we're going to be fighting together– we shouldn't be here, clinging so desperately... feeling every inch... Every inch of you, damn it, pressed against me and feeling so good and warm and so like an extension of life, like a..." His voice caught, too full of feeling, and he couldn't speak.

She pulled herself closer to him, holding onto him so tightly, so tightly. She kissed the lids of his weary, closed eyes. Slowly, she reached out and touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers. He grabbed her wrist and gently pulled her hand away. He kissed the inside of her wrist and murmured something against her skin that she couldn't quite understand.

"Roy," she said lowly, "I want this."

He looked at her with sad, sad eyes. "Even though it's wrong?"

She nodded, full of confidence. "Yes, even though it's wrong."

He kissed her then, almost frightening her in his aggressive urgency. He pushed his forgotten uniform off to the side, and concentrated on learning every inch of her. She forgot, for just a moment, how it was she was supposed to breathe.

"Do you want me to tell you that you're beautiful?" he asked. "That's what I usually would do-- shower you in compliments and kisses, assuring you, anointing you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge of surrender." He put his arms around her, bringing goosebumps up on her back.

"I don't want words." Riza tried to pretend that she hadn't heard of his reputation– hadn't heard of the other women the men spoke of only as conquests. "I know I'm not beautiful; I don't want delusions."

"But you are beautiful. Even if this is wrong, even if this moment– once sacred– is not tainted..." His fingers gently ran through her hair. "You're beautiful enough to make me forget. And I want..."

"What do you want, Roy?"

"I want," he said breathlessly, "to remember. I want to remember." He kissed her shoulder, his mouth open and hot. She trembled before him, head up, eyes closed, feeling scared and bare and filled with some unidentifiable emotion manifesting itself openly in the clear tears sliding down her smooth face.

"I want to remember the way you look." He kissed her collarbone. "I want to remember the way you feel." He kissed her neck. "I want to remember the way you taste." He kissed her face, the wetness of her tears burning his tongue. The tight grip he had on her arms relaxed, and he released her.

"You're crying." He said is so baldly, as though he were merely commenting on the weather. He laughed a little, but it came out more like a hiccup. "God Riza, you're... you're crying."

She nodded, not at all fazed. But he could see her shaking.

With a quick tug, he crushed her body against his own. "You won't give up on me, will you?" he asked, his voice a hot whisper at her ear. Its very tone spoke volumes– of his anguish, of his turmoil, and of his fervent wish to throw all that away. "You won't let me forget this? How here, in the middle of the war, with death all around us, you still feel so alive. So God-damn alive... You're warm and safe and soft and... and an affirmation of all that's good and right. An affirmation of _Life_, Riza..."

They held each other tightly, bodies pressed close and warm.

"It's... it's strange," he said idly, voice uneven, as though something small were something vitally important.

"What?" she prompted, murmuring languidly.

His hands cupped her face, and brought her cheek to his. "I can't tell which are your tears... and which are mine." She felt the wet, sticky skin of his face, sticking to hers. It was so _real_ then that she could hardly bare it.

"It isn't wrong to grasp at what little hope there is," she told him. He felt her legs come around him, the skin of her thighs hitting his waist, and throwing his mind into an inarticulate whirl.

He tried to re-think of the response he had just lost. Her hands innocently slid down his chest, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. "E-even... if we put all other soldiers out of our minds? If we ignore their pain and suffering?"

"We have the rest of our lives to remember them. Now, in this moment, with everything else forgotten..." Her voice cut off with a long, breathy gasp.

He was surprised to find that, all in a moment, he suddenly felt reborn.

His thumb brushed gently across her lips. "All I want to think about–"

"And all I want to remember..."

"– _is you."_

And even with the roar of gunshots and the hypnotic pull of self-hatred that still lurked in his heart, he wouldn't have traded that one moment for the world. That moment when, despite all else, he still felt sane. When all he had was that one woman, and she was all he needed.

The night wore away slowly, and they savored every last second as it passed like a thick drop of water.

"Roy," she whispered to him underneath the sunrise, "the war isn't over... not yet." She ran her hands through his hair, playing with each unruly strand as it fell between her fingers.

"But I think that I have the strength to go on another day." He kissed her. "I suppose I should thank you for that. That's proper, right?"

She smiled. "No. I wish you wouldn't. I told you I'd be here, so I really don't deserve it."

So he never bothered with a "thank you" again. And she was there, beside him, no matter where he went. And she was there, beside him, even when things got worse. And even if he yelled and screamed and fought with her, and all but begged her to leave...

She was still there.

And in the midst of the raging battle, when chaos was the only thing he could count on, it was nice to have a warm body beside him.

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_...the end..._

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End A/N: Sorry it took so long to get this up! I still wasn't completely 100-percent with it, but I had done A LOT of tweaking, and I didn't want to wear it away. I'd REALLYappreciate reviews. I want to know how I did, and though I do write for myself, it helps morale tremendously to know someone else likes my work as well. I see a huge hits to reviews ratio... 

Ahh well. That's the end! Thanks for reading, everyone!

ILB


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